


The Art of Manipulation

by nnekers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Anal Sex, Angst, Dark Sherlock, Dark!Lock, Dom/sub Undertones, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Gay Sex, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Murder, Protective Mycroft, Romance, Scotland Yard, Serial Killer Sherlock, Serial Killers, Sherlock AU, Smut, Undercover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-01-07 22:19:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1125040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nnekers/pseuds/nnekers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Special Agent John Waston is working undercover to catch England's most infamous serial killer, Sherlock Holmes, aka the England Ripper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mission 25

The room was dark and smelled of copper. The only source of light came from the large screen projecting an image of FBI Agent Thomas Heckler, the leader in their current mission. Chairs were arranged around a large metal table in the middle of the room with an agent settled in each seat.

Agent Heckler began the meeting.

"As you already know, we have been undercover for a couple of months trying to catch the England Ripper. If you had read up on the reports that were given to you, you would already know that he has killed a total of 13 people, all males of different backgrounds in different parts of England. The England Ripper operates a little differently than most of the serial killers we are used to. When he spots someone he likes, he tracks them, has his fun with them, and after a few weeks, kills them. When he is done severing their body parts, he drains their funds and moves on to his next victim. He is very neat and organized and this is what led to his first slip. He hops from city to city in order. He has hit Bolton, Manchester, Nottingham and Peterborough. He is now in Cambridge. And we will be there to get him. Due to injury, Special Agent Henry Palace is not with us, so our very own Special Agent John Watson will step in as 'John Martin' and go undercover to crack this case." The agent stopped to clear his throat. "Any questions?"

The room was silent.

"Good. Please begin to go to your assigned positions. And Watson, a word, please."

All the other agents had risen from their seats and filed through the door of the meeting room. John remained in his seat flipping through his file, his new life as John Martin.

"Watson, the reason why your first name was kept as is was because the person we are dealing with is a very intelligent and dangerous mastermind, and if for a moment you forgot that your name is 'Henry' or 'James', things could get dangerous."

John pursed his lips. "Understood."

"Good, good." The agent's face softened a bit and John knew where the conversation was heading. "Listen John, about your last case, Mission 24—"

"I assure you that I am fine; good as new. I am ready for this mission."

After a few seconds of hesitation, he began again. "Fine. We are flying you to your position in less than ten minutes. Be ready…and be careful. Signing off."

The screen went black and John was left to rummage through his file. They already knew what the guy looked like. It was just a matter of catching him and every other person in his operation. His frequent spots included the Bernard Café, Kyeong (an Asian restaurant not far from his hotel) and an old abandoned build on West Key.

John stared at the photo paper-clipped to the side of the file. His hair was jet-black with loose curls. His face seemed stern. The England Ripper seemed like a normal person.

There was a sudden knock on the door of the meeting room.

"Ready when you are, Watson." The man said.

John closed the file and stood from his seat. "Ready."

@@@@@@@@@@

John stood in front of Bernard's Café. He took two deep breaths before entering, and he suddenly knew why the England Ripper frequented this shop. The café was bustling with activity. There were people buzzing with gossip and life stories and whatever they saw on television last night while they ate and drank from their recyclable coffee cups. The line to order seemed to stretch for days, but he hopped on it anyway. _Might as well look like I actually came here to eat_ , John thought to himself.

He tried reading the menu but everything seemed blurry. He realized that he left his contacts in its case back at his fake apartment. He sighed and began to squint.

He picked up the words "espresso" and "small", before he was interrupted.

"Left your glasses at home?" The voice was deep seemed to mask all the other annoying voices around him. John looked in front of him and there he was: the England Ripper, clad in all black attire except for his mahogany oxfords. _I can't believe my luck. I must not fuck this up. Go with the truth_.

"Contacts. I can't seem to remember where I put them."

The Ripper laughed. _Bingo_. "That used to happen to me before I got laser eye surgery. Let me help you out."

The Ripper read out half the menu before John chose to settle with an English Tea and a croissant. The Ripper order his coffee black without sugar.

Once they were both off line, John noticed that all the seats were taken.

"Outside? There are benches." The Ripper said, reading the look in John's eyes.

John feigned an "uncertain" look.

"We don't have to sit together, I'm just saying—"

"No, it's alright. Beats sitting alone." John replied.

"True." The Ripper smirked. _Another win_.

As they walked outside, John mentally took an even deeper breath. He was to regard the Ripper as a normal guy and build a friendship with him. This could take months, but better safe than sorry. He tried not to think about the fact that this was the same guy who killed 13 men, cutting off their limbs and…penises.

He blinked the thought away and sat down right next to the Ripper.

"So what brings you here? You seem…lost." The Ripper grinned. The smile soon disappeared. "Shit, I'm so rude. I'm Sherlock." He held his hand out for a handshake. His skin was pale and his fingers, slender.

"John, and I just moved here yesterday. Dumped." John took the Ripper's hand in his own and shook it firmly.

"Dumped?"

"By my girlfriend. Well ex." Sherlock seemed disappointed, but the look was quickly replaced with a warm smile. "So you don't know anything about this place and you have no friends? That's no good."

"I mean I hope I have one now…"

Sherlock smiled, showing all his white teeth. "You are hilarious. Why where you dumped, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Well according to her, my sex was mediocre and she had found someone else. Oh let's not forget that I wasn't there for her." 

Sherlock looked a bit sad.

"Sorry. I feel like I just ripped opened a wound of yours."

"Nah, it's okay. I just need to distracted myself."

"If you want, I could show you around some day, y'know as a distraction. The sights here are amazing at night." Sherlock said, taking a sip of his now luke-warm coffee.

"I'd like that." John replied, feeling a weird, warm feeling in his stomach. "Are you always this friendly to strangers?"

"Just the cute ones." Sherlock winked.


	2. The Ripper

Sherlock's comment replayed itself over and over again in John's mind.

He observed his new companion's smug little face as the words left his pale pink lips.

Sherlock knew exactly what he was doing. He was playing with John, trying to toy with his emotions.

But John was all too familiar with this move.

He tried to disassociate the thought of Sherlock being human by referring to him as "the ripper", but the name "Sherlock" was beginning to feel light and familiar on his tongue.

"What are you thinking about?" Sherlock asked, his lips perched perfectly on the tip of his coffee cup. They were still seated at the table outside the cafe.

The wind began to pick up violently, ruffling Sherlock's dark curly hair against his forehead.

John blinked a couple of times, removing himself from inside his head. He was on a mission, he had to remember that. _Play along_ , he urged himself.

"Just thinking about things to do at home to occupy time." He played with the coffee-stained napkin in his hands. There was a faint noise. A child was crying somewhere inside the cafe.

"I'm going out to a pub tonight, if you'd like to tag along," Sherlock shrugged.

"Only if you don't mind."

"Nonsense. The more the merrier."

And just like that plans were made to see each other later in the evening. John mentally gave himself a point for attempting to hang out with Sherlock twice in a row. He felt himself smiling. All the agents felt as if he was incapable of doing his job after his last mission, _but wait until they get a hold of this_ , he told himself.

The crying in the cafe stopped abruptly.

Sherlock checked the thin black watch that wrapped itself tightly around his wrist and rose from his seat.

"I regret that I must go. I have company waiting for me at home." Sherlock dusted himself off and extended his hand. John placed the stained napkin on the table and took hold of his hand, shaking it firmly.

It was cold.

"Well, it was nice to meet you Mr.-"

"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes."

"...Mr. Holmes."

"Yes, indeed. The pleasure is all mine. But I insist you call me Sherlock," he smirked, "Don't forget about the pub. Shall I write down the address?"

"That would be nice." Sherlock took out a pen, scribbled a few lines on the coffee stained napkin, and slid it back to John.

"The last number is a 3. Let's meet up, let's say, around seven-thirty?"

"Sure. I mean, yes, seven-thirty sounds good."

"Splendid."

And without a sound, he was gone, disappearing around the corner.

John sat there in the same position for a while before he too decided to leave, the stained napkin nestled deeply inside his pocket

@@@@@@@@@@

The sun was beginning to set outside, leaving a beautiful sheet of velvety orange in the sky. The trees that faced Sherlock's house reflected the color breathtakingly.

"So beautiful." Sherlock whispered, half to himself.

Behind him, a muffled cry echoed against the empty walls of his living room.

Sherlock turned from the windows and shook his head.

"Now George, we don't scream in doors. That is quite rude. "

The man Sherlock was referring to was George Hamilton, his latest victim.

He was thirty-nine year old man with a head full of dark gray hair. He worked for Freedom Bank, London's second largest bank. His aim was to be CEO of Freedom and make his parents proud. But for now he was seated right under the director.

"Trust me, I don't want to do this. Especially after you told me that heart wrenching story of how you want to make daddy proud after he caught you fucking the gardener."

George winced at the thought. He wanted so badly to punch this man in the face but his hands and feet were bound, and he was gagged. He had been thrown to the floor after their last "playtime". He was cold, hungry, and in pain. And he had a feeling that things would only get worse.

Sherlock, who wore nothing but a white robe, walked over to him and sat right on top of his naked body. George's body, familiar to his touch, became aroused by Sherlock's contact. George groaned. He hated this man, this monster, but his touch was as sweet as silk.

Goosebumps formed all over his body.

"Mmmm, you still want to play?" Sherlock reached behind and began to stroke his now erect penis. "You naughty, naughty boy."

George groaned softly and his breathing quickened.

His mind wandered to the first time he had engaged in sex with Sherlock:

> _"I want you so bad…" George moaned, quickly removing his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. Sherlock was already naked, legs crossed. He sat angelically on the edge of the bed with that daunting smile of his_
> 
> _"Do you? How much do you want me? Tell me all the naughty things you'd love to do to me." He teased in his velvet voice._
> 
> _"I want to fuck you so hard. I want to make you tremble. I want you to beg for more. Oh god, I'm about to cum just thinking about it."_
> 
> _George was clearly aroused. He was down to his boxers and his penis was already hard. It pressed firmly against his undergarment, in need of dire attention._
> 
> _Sherlock licked his lips._   
> 

Sherlock's sudden release from the man's genitals snapped him back to the present.

He stood up.

"Too bad this has to end. I had a _lovely_ two weeks with you." He stuck his hands into the sole pocket of his robe and pulled out a small blade.

George started to whimper. Tears nestled themselves in the corners of his eyes.

He had always heard about "The Ripper" on the television and read about him in the newspapers. He learned the gruesome details of how The Ripper would sever his victims' genitals before ending their lives. Some psychologists argued that he kept them as a trophy. Others concluded he was just plain crazy.

And here he was now: George Henry Hamilton II. The same man who was allergic to seafood. The same man who seduced his gardener into having sex with him on his parents' bed. The same man who graduated Cum Laude.

And the same exact man who was about to have his dick cut off.

Before he could blink, Sherlock was already crouched down, his small blade to George's penis.

" _Enchanté_." Sherlock whispered.

It was the last thing he heard before he felt an excruciating pain spread through his groin. His screams were lost in his throat as his bright crimson blood gushed out all over his lower body and floor.

George began to see stars.

"And for the entrée, _shrimp à la George_." Sherlock announced.

George's last sight was the knife as it repeatedly plunged into his chest.


	3. Failed Attempt (part 1)

Sherlock Holmes sat comfortably on his favorite burgundy armchair with a newly lit cigarette balanced in between his pointer and middle finger.

Adjacent to him on the floor laid George Hamilton's lifeless body.

It had been two hours since Sherlock had killed him.

A dried pool of blood encircled his body and fed into the small rug next to him. His chest, which contained multiple stab wounds, was now slashed open in a triangular shape. His thick pink skin was peeled back, and in place of his heart was a single gold coin.

Sherlock took a drag of his cigarette. The sweet smoke filled the air around him.

He beamed.

He was in such great spirits and still living off his high from killing George. It gave him such a rush.

Sometimes the kill was so satisfying, it was hard to come down from the high and he would lose control.

But today the kill wasn't _enough_.

It had been only two hours and he already had his eye on his next prey.

John.

_John_.

He let the man's name roll around in his mind.

He had been curious about him the minute he saw him stroll in through the door of Bernard's Café.

Sherlock was seated outside, studying him through the café window, formulating deductions based on his appearance alone.

> _Brand new jacket, but old shoes; Genuine leather wallet in his pocket; Must be middle class; Freshly shaven, maybe he's meeting someone? Cheap aftershave; Dark circles under eyes, bad day? No, they're deep, bad month. Crossed arms, guarded, hiding something; Stain on collar; Jam; Are those bread crumbs? Breakfast; He ate before he got here, so what is he doing?_  
> 

His inquisitive mind raced.

He had to satisfy his curiosity.

He hopped on line right behind him and made a side comment about him squinting.

Before John could reply, his eyes gave him away: Sherlock saw the look of recognition in those deep-set gray eyes.

John knew exactly who he was.

Sherlock saw this as an opportunity for an all-new high. He knew this one would be dangerous to pursue, but it would be worth it in the end. He loved challenges. _After all_ , he thought to himself, _what is life without risks?_

He was going to have fun with John and he was going to relish every minute of it.

And when he grew bored of John, he would kill him, and give him his gold coin.

The large mahogany grandfather clock in his living room chimed seven times for seven o'clock.

Sherlock took one last drag of his cigarette before putting it out on an ashtray.

Showtime.


	4. Failed Attempt (part 2)

John sat awkwardly on a worn leather stool by the bar, occasionally peering at time on his cell phone.

It was approaching eight o'clock and Sherlock was nowhere to be found.

John frowned.

There was nothing he despised more than tardiness.

When it came to time, John was never late. He made certain that he was at least fifteen minutes early, no matter where he went. Being in the army made him a sensible man, and though it wasn't reasonable, he expected this of everyone else.

John checked the time on his phone once more and sighed when he realized that it was exactly eight o'clock. _Thirty bloody minutes late_.

"Maybe she's not coming."

John averted his gaze to the bartender grinning at him. His face was youthful and his smile, genuine.

John couldn't help but smile back.

"I'm actually awaiting the arrival of a man." _A serial killer. I'm meeting up with a serial killer. Why did I agree to this? Maybe I'm slowly going mad_.

"Oh."

John, snapped out of his head by the bartender's comment, realized the implications of his previous statement.

A prickly heat spread onto his cheeks. "I-it's not what it sounds like. I'm-"

"There's no need to explain. Trust me, I don't discriminate." The bartender interrupted, winking.

Before John could clarify his situation, he sensed a presence behind him, too close for his comfort.

" _John_."The familiar baritone voice danced about his ears, causing the hairs on his neck to stand up.

_Sherlock_.

Gradually rotating on his stool, John forced himself to face him, despite the uneasy feeling in his stomach. He was met with an apologetic smile.

"I am truly sorry. I hope you can excuse my lateness."

"Y-yes. It's fine.

And just like that, without an explanation, John excused Sherlock.

He did not understand why he did it and he mentally punched himself in the face for it.

He gazed at Sherlock as he took the lead and ordered drinks for the both of them. He watched as he laughed with the bartender, gathering two rose colored drinks and whispering words that made the young man blush.

He hadn't realized he had been staring until he caught Sherlock scrutinizing him with his piercing sapphire eyes, right eyebrow raised.

His lips were moving.

"What..?" John blinked.

Sherlock smirked. "I said, are you alright? You've been daydreaming ever since I've got here."

John rubbed the back of his neck. "Yes, yes. I'm fine. I'm just… a little thirsty, I guess." _fuckfuckfuck_.

Sherlock beamed. "Good, because I purchased drinks for us." He handed a wine glass to John. "Cheers." He grabbed his own glass and sipped the rosy liquid.

John mirrored his movements and swallowed his cocktail. He felt a bit more relaxed. He also noted that Sherlock seemed a lot less menacing once alcohol was involved. He almost looked…handsome. _Must be the alcohol_. He glanced down at his nearly empty glass. _I wonder what this is?_

"Strawberry margarita," Sherlock said, answering his thoughts. "I figured I'd go light. I didn't know if you were a heavy drinker. Then again, I know nothing about you, John."

John felt the prickly heat return to his cheeks. _What is wrong with me?_ "What would you like to know?" he asked, sheepishly. He felt as if he was on a blind date.

Sherlock tapped his index finger against his cheek. "Why you're really here, being that the story about your girlfriend was complete bullshit."

If there was ever a period where John felt like he wanted to quit his job, now was the perfect time. He had never been caught in a lie. He had done countless missions for the FBI, some entitling him to go undercover for months at a time. He had encountered every maniac in the book: serial killers, serial rapists, even terrorists. Each time, he had come in and out without being discovered.

And now his cover was about to be blown.

"Well, go on. I don't suppose the answer is in that empty glass." Sherlock urged him. John looked up and examined his murderous companion. _He wants answers. Mix truth with fiction_.

"I'm in the army and I'm on a leave of absence." _Sort of true_. Sherlock seemed satisfied with the answer, but he still had questions.

"For what exactly?"

John was all out of answers and he didn't know what else to he could say.

>   
> _"There's no need to explain. Trust me, I don't discriminate."_   
> 

_No. No. NO._

_Don't do it, John._

_For fucks sake, DON'T-_

"Uninvestigated homosexual activity."

The second it came out of his mouth, John regretted every word. He wanted to run far away from the pub, and as far away from the case as he could get. John cursed himself tenfold. The army general himself might as well have ripped the badge right off of his uniform.

After an uncomfortable silence, Sherlock lifted his glass into the air. "Well, I'll drink to that."

John silently praised an unknown god for his indestructible cover. "I guess this calls for more drinks…?" He responded, quizzically.

His companion grinned deviously and waved over a bartender. The young bartender, with his ridiculously smooth skin and messy curls, skipped over to the two men, smiling.

"Is everything alright?" the young man asked.

"Two more margaritas and we shall be even better." Sherlock rejoined in a joking tone.

"No problem." The young bartender turned to wink at John before he sprinted off to prepare cocktails for the two gentlemen.

John felt himself die a little inside from the embarrassment.

"I think he's got a thing for you." Sherlock chuckled, leaning in a bit closer.

"I think you're confused." _Why is it so hot in here?_

"Am I? What I do know is that he has great taste." Sherlock licked his full lips.

John felt the heat of Sherlock's breath on his cheek. He suddenly felt dizzy. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. It was as if the whole world was spinning. _When did he get so close_ , John thought to himself. _Get a hold of yourself, Watson. You-_

He was jolted out his thoughts when he felt a bony hand snake its way to his thigh. John stood up so fast he knocked down his empty glass, shattering it on the floor in the process.

He mumbled a hurried apology and vanished before Sherlock could utter a single word.


	5. Feelings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chief Inspector Thomas Heckler (OC) is a homophobic prick and might say a few disgusting choice words or hint at things that are unacceptable. This in no way reflects my personal views AT ALL (I'm for equal rights in gender, race, sexuality, etc). This is just for the story! Thanks!!

John jolted awake from a familiar terrifying dream, his forehead covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

John had been keeping a tally, and according to his calculations, this would count as the fifth consecutive day that he had been plagued by the same exact dream: Sherlock reaching over and pulling him into a tight kiss that immediately turned into hot, erotic sex.

Each time, John awoke with a painful erection, which was quickly (and awkwardly) taken care of in the cold showers that followed.

John was camped out on his brand new leather couch that squeaked with uncertainty each time his tossed and turned.

Sleeping in his bed, he noted, brought upon frequent nightmares, sometimes three in one night!

All he could manage to do was pop a few Advil's for his pounding headaches and pay special attention to his growing boner.

The passing week had been quite hectic for John and, as customary for every agent working for Scotland Yard, he was to report every development to Chief Inspector Thomas Heckler. However, he had yet to pick up a phone and, quite honestly, he really didn't feel like talking.

_Better to just get it over with_.

John reached over to his small coffee table and retrieved his Blackberry phone using his left hand.

A few quick punches and he was connected to Chief Inspector Heckler after one ring.

"Watson," Heckler greeted.

"Chief." John greeted him back dully.

Their relationship wasn't exactly what you would call _friendly_. Thomas was his boss and John was his agent. That was all there was to it.

The only thing John would ever admit to was being grateful to Thomas for getting him a job fresh out of the army. If it were not for the Chief Inspector, John would be living a dull life, unemployed, and perhaps looking for a flat mate.

"We have been waiting to hear from you. You sure took bloody long to report back. Any developments?"

"Ah, yes," John admitted reluctantly. "I had a, uh, _run in_ with Sherlock."

"You mean the England Ripper." Heckler reminded him.

John could not tell if it was a question or a statement. He had a feeling that Heckler knew it was more than just a "run in". _And since when was I on a first name basis with a killer?!_

"Yes. I met him in the café. Well, _he_ met _me_. We sat down for coffee and got acquainted. Next thing I know, we are at a pub, drinks and all. He tried to make a move on me and I-"

"Move? What do you mean?" Heckler interrupted him.

John did not want to go into the details but this was a mission and not a place for feelings.

"He, uh, tried to touch me. Below the belt."

John felt the heat spread to his cheeks.

He wished they hadn't brought this particular mission to him. He also wished he hadn't agreed to it. Not only did a _serial killer_ try to feel him up, but also the embarrassment that came with it was almost impossible to live down. And he was not about to tell the Chief Inspector about his wet dreams. _Oh god, no_.

After an uncomfortable moment of silence, Heckler spoke again, his reply causing John to regret he ever picked up the phone.

"I'm glad you mentioned this to me because, to put it quite frankly, it makes it easier to tell you this: We need you to get closer to Sherlock Holmes, not as a friend, but as a homosexual."

"Wait, you want me to _what_?" A panicky feeling began to settle into the pit of his stomach.

"Look, I know you aren't a _fag_ and, trust me, this wasn't my idea, but this is the route we need to take to catch the perv."

John felt himself fuming at the derogatory term used. John wasn't gay. Well, John didn't _think_ he was gay, however, this did not stop him from accepting people for who they were, sexuality and all. So what if Sherlock liked men? It wasn't any different from that numskull Heckler liking women. The problem at hand was that he was viciously murdering people, not his preferences!

"Can we just refrain from using that word?" he spoke up into the receiver, his words coming out as a whisper.

"What? _Faggot_? Ha! What, are you one of them, now?" Heckler spat.

He knew he held John's job in the palm of his hands and that any answer from him in which he did not agree with was grounds for termination in his twisted mind.

Sadly, John knew this as well.

"No, I just…forget it." He shrunk back into the comfort of his couch.

"Good. Now, I'm sure you know what your next steps are. I expect to hear from you by the end of the week with good news, got it."

"Yes sir."

"Brilliant. Good day, Watson."

The phone went dead and John was left with the faint buzzing of his dial tone.

@@@@@@@@@@

Sherlock sat indecently with his thin legs up on top of his beloved velvet armchair, placed conveniently near the old fireplace. The going fire danced on the burning logs, providing great warmth against his skin.

He had been up for three straight days, sitting in the same position.

There, on the wooden coffee table in front of him, lay his nourishment: a single new cigarette. Earlier, he had debated lighting it, but decided against it. He was trying to kick his old habit, " _a three patch problem_ ", he once told himself. It seemed to be working well for him until George put up a fight, and he was forced to kill him earlier than he planned, thus putting himself in danger of being caught.

_Very stressful_.

Fortunately, George was done with, fifty feet deep into the ocean, weighted down with a cement block.

Except now a new problem had arose.

A new problem by the name of _John_.

He knew John worked with the government as some sort of police enforcement, but beyond that he was clueless. He tried to break into the Scotland Yard database, but he only got so far.

He thought he knew what John wanted; he thought he knew how to _seduce_ him. It had worked on all the other men and before he knew it, they were each in his bed, stripped of their garments, backside up, crying out his name in between his timed thrusts. A selected amount of his specimen even had the audacity to whimper out a broken "I love you".

It was all too easy, so why couldn't he make it work on John?

Sherlock shifted on his armchair, finally sensing the effects of his restlessness. A wave of exhaustion washed over his body, causing him regret that he had failed to make a coffee run earlier this morning.

_The café will have to do_ , he noted mentally, collecting himself off the armchair.

Sherlock reached over and placed the untouched cigarette in the pocket of his ironed purple button down, commending himself on a smoke-smoke free morning.

He sauntered over to the rack that held a selection of his jackets and decided on a long black trench coat. As he opened the front door to his home, a forceful gust of wind swept passed him, tousling the curls on his forehead. _At least it isn't raining_.

Quickly bolting the door and dashing to the main road, Sherlock flagged down a cabby and directed the weary man to Bernard's Cafe. A quick debate on pricing and he was on his way.

Comfortably seated in the back of the cab, Sherlock shut his eyes, leaning his head on the black leather seats, and let the sway of the taxi put him at ease. He thought about John: his awkward personality, his graying head of hair and that god-awful tan sweater the man seemed to repeatedly wear. He liked the jacket though, with bits of leather placed tastefully at the elbows and shoulders. Yes, he really liked that jacket on him.

He wondered about sex with John. Usually, this was not on his mind. While he did enjoy the sex with his _specimens_ , as would any other person,it was not something he really cared about, it was something that had to be done; a ritual, in a way. However, with John, he was curious. How would John scream when he is thrusted into? Would he cry out his name like the others? How hoarse would his voice be in the morning? And though he made a rule to never _ever_ kiss any of his specimens, just out of curiosity, _how would he taste_?

The taxi slowed to a halt, and, with a quick flick of his fingers, the cabby unlocked the doors.

"I believe this is it, sir." The older man said, breaking the silence.

Sherlock blinked himself out of his mind palace and back into the real world. "Ah, I believe you are correct." Using his slim, pale hands, he dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a wad of notes, handing it to the driver. "Keep the change."

"Oh my god! Thank you so much, sir! You are very kind!"

Sherlock smirked. "Most people don't seem to think so. Have a lovely day."

"The same to you!"

Once Sherlock shut the door of the taxi, the joyous cabby sped away, singing at the top of his lungs in what sounded like Arabic.

Sherlock chuckled a bit to himself as he entered the café. The warm air and the sweet aroma of freshly baked goods danced around his nose, causing his mouth to slightly water. The shop was a lot less packed, making it easier for him to order his coffee quickly.

Sherlock found himself wandering to the seating area outside, the same area in which he and John sat and conversed for the first time.

_John_.

He sat down on one of the old wooden benches and placed his coffee on the table.

He took a sip of the liquid and sat back, allowing the sweetened coffee to warm his body up.

After a few more sips, Sherlock decided to go against his better judgment and light the cigarette he had placed in the pocket of his shirt. He pressed it against his lips, taking in the comforting scent of tobacco.

_Welcome, old friend_.

He closed his eyes and took a long drag, letting the smoke flow freely from his lips afterward. He felt a sense of ease settle in his chest. Nicotine had a habit of making him feel this way, he had noted earlier on. It made it ten times harder for him to quit.

"So, um, is this seat taken?"

Sherlock hastily opened his eyes to find John Watson standing awkwardly before him, a lopsided smile plastered on his face.


	6. Dinner With The Enemy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR/HAPPY THIRD SEASON OF SHERLOCK!

"John."

John's name came out more astounded than Sherlock wanted it to, but he could not help it. He was utterly surprised.

"Sherlock." John greeted him back.

A few days ago, he had attempted to seduce John, rubbing his hand sensually over his thigh. With his other specimen, this usually led to submission: a quick taxi ride to the nearest hotel, followed by a night filled with mind-blowing sex.

This was not the case with John. Flustered by the sudden contact, he scampered out of the pub with his tail in between his legs. Sherlock wasn't certain if they would ever meet again.

But here he was, staring right at him with those deep gray eyes and that smug smile plastered on his lovely face. It seemed so effortless, the way John could just easily tug upward on the corners of his mouth and put him slightly out of breath.

His sudden appearance, Sherlock had decided, was a pleasant surprise; a statement he had never planned on using.

Nevertheless, he assured himself that the quick wavering of his heart was just his curiosity at play. He was simply curious about the man that stood before him.

Yes, that's _exactly_ what it was.

John made a sound as if to clear his throat, jerking Sherlock out of his thoughts and reminding him exactly where he was.

_John, right. Why is he still standing? He could just—Oh._

"If you'd like, you may sit down. I'm sure it's better than standing." Sherlock stated, embarrassed that he had forget to offer him a seat.

John smiled brightly, slightly drawing an increase in Sherlock's heart rate, and plopped down right next to him. He sat with his legs wide open, his left knee brushing against Sherlock's own.

They sat like that for a while, gazing into the sun, which had suddenly made an appearance. The warmth of the sun felt pleasant.

"About the other day . . ." John began, turning himself to face the raven-haired man, twiddling his thumbs nervously.

Sherlock could sense his uneasiness and started to protest. "John, you don't-"

"I know I don't have to," he interjected quickly, "But I want to."

Sherlock visibly nodded as if to say, _"I understand"_. At that moment, he knew that he could easy walk away and never turn back, forgetting John and all the confusion that he had brought along with him. But he didn't. He just sat there, waiting to hear what the other man had to say. Sherlock was not sure why he cared. He knew it was of no importance to him and that this whole debacle was delaying his time. However, something in him, something evidently unwise, made him sit still and listen.

"First off, I want to apologize for my behavior at the pub. I only ran out because I was a bit scared. It's been a while since I've done anything . . . like this."

"Oh."

Sherlock's abilities appeared to be failing him because at that moment, he could not decipher if John was lying straight through his teeth or if that was an honest statement. It bugged him that one man, one awkward and . . . _unpredictable man_ , could make him lose his cool.

"I hope we can put this past us. Maybe start fresh . . . " John muttered, his eyes settling on his rough tan hands.

"John."

John picked at a stubborn hangnail on his calloused hands. For some strange reason, the words coming from his mouth felt real, and that scared him.

"John?"

He lifted his gaze to meet Sherlock's sapphire eyes. "What was that?"

"I said . . . I said I'll give you another chance to redeem yourself. How does dinner at my place sound?"

John was quite for a moment. He scanned Sherlock's pale, proportioned face, his gray eyes piercing through all three layers of skin. Sherlock's face was sincere and his words flowed with a certain honesty that he wasn't used to.

Was this part of his scheme?

He had to risk it.

Two whole minutes went by before Sherlock heard the two words that ultimately made his insides tremble.

"I accept."

@@@@@@@@@@

John reached the designated address around seven o'clock in the evening. By that time, the sun had set and he was aided up to the building by the light of the moon. He rang the doorbell once, taking in his surroundings as he waited to be invited in.

The apartment building was not large; three floors at most, with dull paint peeling at its sides. The only source of light, besides the moon, seemed to be coming from the second floor where John assumed Sherlock inhabited.

After a few seconds, the black door, labeled with the gold lettering "221 B", opened wide to reveal Sherlock, clad in black as usual. His curls were slightly damp and he smelled of cologne and cigarettes.

"John, come in."

John smiled politely and followed the tall raven-haired man up the stairs to his apartment. Once he entered the living room, John stood in awe, admiring the normality of his living habits. Everything seemed to be slightly messy, but organized.

"Make yourself at home. I'll take your coat for you, if you don't mind." Sherlock said, approaching the shorter man. John quickly removed his jacket and sat on the small couch facing the television.

"It's a nice place you've got here." He said, scanning the patterned walls for picture frames of Sherlock or at least some sign that he had friends and family. Unfortunately, the only frames he saw were of passed scientists, those whose names John could not quite put together.

"Thank you. Got it for a good deal from my landlady. She's a friend of my brother's." Sherlock said, turning to hang John's jacket on the coat rack near the door. He returned to the seating area where John was perched comfortably.

"You have a brother?" John was a bit stunned, but didn't let it show in his voice.

"Ah yes, an particularly annoying one." He rolled his eyes and John grinned.

"Whose family isn't annoying?" They chuckled together for a bit before resuming their small talk.

"Do you have any siblings?" Sherlock asked, sincerely wanting to know more about the man sitting on his couch.

"Just one, Harry. My sister."

" . . . Harry? That is quite a unique name."

"You don't want to know." John laughed.

Sherlock felt at ease. It felt nice to have company that you did not want to savagely slaughter. He almost felt normal.

"Why don't you head on over to the kitchen? I'll have dinner put out in a few."

John smiled warmly. He had nearly forgotten about the food. "Do you want me to help out?"

"Nonsense, you are my guest and should be treated as such." Sherlock trudged into his kitchen, closely followed by John, and began to quickly set the table. John walked over to a chair and sat down, watching the taller man set the table with delicacies such as honey-roasted ham, lemon-baked salmon and freshly brewed tea.

He could feel his mouth water. It had been a long time since he had eaten a home cooked meal. Living alone, he had to survive on take-out and dishes from his friendly neighbors.

"Holy shit," John drooled, "you can cook. I just hope it tastes as good as it looks."

Sherlock, ignoring his comment, finally settled into his seat. He observed all the food had specifically prepared for John, recalling how he had to google most of the recipes online and refer to a few youtube videos for the tedious preparation.

He looked over to John, who was gazing lovingly at the strawberry jam filled crepes.

"Now," Sherlock said enthusiastically, "let's eat."

@@@@@@@@@@

John sat back into his chair, feeling a sense of discomfort from his stomach. He had eaten so much and his protruding belly showed every sign. He swore to never eat again.

"I think I might have bitten off more than I could chew." He whined, rubbing his sore belly.

Sherlock laughed. "I see you enjoyed yourself."

"Indeed. Thank you for dinner. It was delicious. I hope it wasn't any trouble."

"It was no trouble at all, I assure you. Thank you for agreeing to be a guest at my table."

"Anytime." _Anytime?_

There was an awkward pause.

"Well," John said, rising from the table, "I guess I'll go freshen up." He pushed out his chair, walked around it, and returned it to its previous position. He paused, fingers tapping delicately along the chair's sturdy frame. "Oh, uh, where may I be able to find a bathroom?"

"Straight down the hall, last door to the left." Sherlock answered in one breath.

He watched John waddle awkwardly out of the dining area and disappear around the corner.

John strolled down the lengthy hallway that seemed to stretch out for miles.

There were three sets of doors on each side, not counting the single door at the end of the corridor. Yellowing wallpaper, covered in a Victorian-styled print, enclosed the walls entirely except around each doorframe, where it appeared to be peeling away.

The lone door at the end of the hall was slightly open, smoke seeping out from right under the opening.

_What the bloody hell . . . ? A fire?!_

John approached the door and placed his palm over the silver knob, testing for heat. It was ice cold, something he was not anticipating from a room that was supposedly on fire.

_I'll just check, one look, and then I'll be on my way. Three seconds top._

He pushed the door back and attempted to peer inside the ominously dark room.

"What do you think you're doing?"

John, completely surprised by the sudden intrusion, jumped out of his skin to the familiar baritone voice echoing along the corridor. He immediately shut the door.

Opposite to him, at the end of the hallway stood Sherlock, his pale and pleasant face contorted into a mixture of irritation and suspicion.

John felt the fear enter his body and paralyze him from head to toe. He had let his curiosity get the best of him and now here he stood, face to face with a furious killer who seemed ready to tear him in half.

_Shit, I've done it now._

Only when Sherlock began to menacingly stroll towards the shorter man did John finally speak up. "W-what?" he stuttered, the fear evidently apparent in his voice.

"Last time I checked, you were neither deaf nor dumb." Sherlock spat, nearing the other man. "I asked a simple question. Even the simplest of dull creatures could provide an answer faster than you. What. Are. You. _Doing_?"

He was close now and John could sense the venom in his voice.

There was something beautiful about the way the lights shone on Sherlock's skin, the way the light seemed to kiss all his features, giving him an angelic-like glow. It was also terrifying that something as simple as light could mask a person's true nature.

John willed himself to look into those piercing cobalt eyes, devoid of any emotion. "Nothing."

" _Nothing_?" Sherlock probed aggressively, closing in on John, backing him up against the door, "What do you mean _nothing_? It clearly had to be _something_ , or you would not-"

John stepped forward and surged his lips to Sherlock's, silencing the fuming man instantaneously.

Five seconds went by before he realized the implications of his actions.

He walked backwards until his back met the door. His brain clouded with terror and his eyes widened with dread. _Oh my god, what have I done?_

Sherlock, utterly shocked by the kiss, stood completely still, his heart rate slowly climbing. There, in the pit of his stomach, was an odd and unfamiliar sensation that he almost failed to recognize.

_Desire_.

The feeling came as a wave and washed over him, driving him like a blind rage. He pulled the shorter man closer by the collar, eliminating any space that had been between them, and violently pressed his lips against John's, drawing out a single lustful moan from between his thin pink lips.


	7. Brother Issues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally did it jfc. I finally updated. 
> 
> It's a very short chapter (stupid writer's block, I swear) with a lot of dialogue (for character development).
> 
> I promise the next chapter will be twice as long.
> 
> Enjoy!

Dr. John H. Watson was a very respectable man, both in the British Army as an Army Doctor and in Scotland Yard as a Special Agent. All of his friends and colleagues perceived him as the man he was trained to be: a respectable human being.

He wondered what they would think of him now if they had discovered him presently: pressed against a kitchen counter with another man’s mouth attached to his dick.

“Oh _god_ , do that again.”

John understood how wrong this particular situation was: a man, who he was supposedly investigating, a murderer for that matter, happened to be down on his knees, rolling John’s cock around in his mouth, sending zings of pleasure up through his spine.

But, for the time being, while this man did those delicious things with his mouth, John threw all his cares away.

“Yes, yes, _yes_.”

He did not care, for he was completely and utterly consumed with lust, an emotion he had not experienced since Mission 24.

Oh, what a long time it had been. He hadn’t realized how sex-deprived he was. When was the last time he had sex?

“ _Christ!”_

His thoughts slowly became muddled as he felt Sherlock clutch the base of his cock and suction-cup his lips to John’s sac.

“ _Fuck_.”

John tossed his head back, shutting his eyes, and allowed himself to feel every lick and nibble of Sherlock’s glorious mouth around his dick.

He glanced down and watched his cock disappear into Sherlock’s mouth, his soft pink lips sliding down his throbbing shaft. Sherlock worked his way up the base and immediately down again, in a rhythmic motion that made the blood rush to John’s slightly enlarged cock. He exhaled sharply through his mouth and bit his bottom lip to keep from moaning aloud.

“S-shit, I’m about to—”

“Well, this is unquestionably disturbing.”

The two men jumped away from each other, surprised by the intrusion.

There, in the doorway of the kitchen, stood a man, presumably in his mid forties, with short dark hair and a lopsided frown. His arms were crossed tightly against his three-piece suit.

“Jesus, Mycroft, there is a doorbell on the door for a reason.” Sherlock said, once he had gotten over his initial shock. He walked over to the stove and set up a kettle for tea.

“Please tell me that this was just one of your experiments.” Mycroft replied, eyeing John, who was fastening his pants.

Sherlock sighed and turned to the two men. “Mycroft, this is John. John, this is Mycroft . . . my brother.”

John, still a little flustered from the intrusion, held his hand out. “It is, uh, an honor to meet you.”

Mycroft retrieved the umbrella that was discretely nestled at his side and used the end to push away the shorter man’s hand. “I’m sure it is.” He did not wish to shake the hand of some male prostitute, especially since he knew _exactly_ where those hands had been.

“Why don’t you both go and sit down in the living room while I prepare some tea, hmm?” Sherlock said.

The two men looked at Sherlock and then at each other before shuffling out of the kitchen.

John tried to pick a seat as far away from Mycroft as he possible could, but in the end the dark haired man chose the seat directly in front of John.

Mycroft leaned in and examined the shorter man once more.

“So what is it that you do when you aren’t working as a male prostitute?” he asked.

“I am actually not a male prostitute,” John said, “and, uh, I am sort of unemployed.”

“Oh great, you’re after his money.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. You must surely want something. People like you just don’t turn up out of the blue. You’re looking for something. What do you want with Sherlock?”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“Listen, I don’t know who are you or what you’re up to, but know that if anything ever happens to Sherlock, mark my words, I will _crush_ you.” Mycroft said through his freshly whitened teeth. Both his hands were on the table and he looked about ready to pounce, that is, if the man’s younger brother had not walked right into the living room, balancing two full cups of tea in his hands.

Mycroft relaxed a little and tried appear as if he hadn’t just threatened John’s life.

Sherlock sat down next to John and immediately took a sip of his tea. “No, Mycroft, I did not prepare any tea for you.” He said.

Mycroft rolled his eyes in response.

“This one’s for you John.” Sherlock pushed the second cup of tea to the shorter man.

“Oh, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

An awkward silence dawned upon the three men.

John and Sherlock sipped their teas while Mycroft sat there, furiously shaking his leg in a rather indignant manner. After a few moments of silence, he felt the need to express his aversion for John’s presence.

“So, John, when will you be leaving?”

“Uh, well—”

“He is actually staying the night.” Sherlock interrupted, “aren’t you John?”

Sherlock glared at the shorter man until he muttered out an uncertain “yes”.

“From what I can see, you hardly know the guy. There is no way he is staying the night!”

“My flat, my rules. John, I have a drawer of spare jammies in the guest room. First door on the right.”

John stood up.

“He is not staying over!”

John sat down.

“He is too!”

John stood up again.

He tried to intervene, explaining that he could leave, since he didn’t live too far away. However they refused to listen, both men shouting out a simultaneous “Be quiet!”.

In the end, Sherlock won, but Mycroft did not let him hear the end of it.

“This is a very bad idea.”

“John, you can change into your jammies upstairs, if you would like.”

“You don’t even know the man.”

“Does it matter?” Sherlock asked, rhetorically.

“Yes! It does!” Mycroft cried, astonished that he would even ask.

The two went back and forth until Sherlock realized that he had the ability to kick his brother out of his flat. Mycroft reluctantly made his way out, exclaiming that he would soon be back, and this time with reinforcement. Knowing his brother always kept his word, Sherlock began to toy with the idea of changing the locks on his door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading, leaving kudos, commenting etc!


	8. Let's Play a Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps I had too much fun writing this chapter. 
> 
> The next chapter will definitely be about John (his life before Scotland Yard, etc.,).
> 
> The chapter after that will (hopefully, if I stay on track) be about Sherlock, his life etc. (because I know you guys are dying to know)
> 
> As usual, excuse any mistakes, spelling errors etc., you may see. I'm only human (with no beta).
> 
> Enjoy!

 

The first thing John saw, once his eyes flicked open, was the small vase of tulips that sat on the end table near his bed. They were beautiful to gaze at amid their vibrant yellow petals and deep green stems. Upon gazing at the tulips, John realized that he owned no such thing.

He gathered he was not at home and sat up quickly. He shoved the white duvet that covered his body off to the side and rolled out of bed.

John opened the bedroom door and walked out into the hallway. Six doors were lined up, three on each side of the hallway, reminding John exactly where he was.

He scratched his mop of brown and gray hair and walked into the bathroom to clean himself up.

While he brushed his teeth, John stared at himself in the mirror. He felt confident. After last night, John was very certain that the mission was going according to plan. Not only had he and Sherlock kissed, but John had also received oral sex from the mastermind himself. Prior to receiving the blowjob, John was slightly apprehensive, but he slowly realized that by closing his eyes and pretending that Sherlock was a woman, he could make the whole experience quite enjoyable.

Of course there were those few seconds where John opened his eyes and gazed down intently at the man who was sucking on his cock so passionately, his cheeks hollow as he rose to the tip of John’s pink erect dick. And though he refused to acknowledge it, it was this that brought John crashing down to an orgasm.

Well, really close to an orgasm, if Mycroft hadn’t interrupted. And what was the deal with Mycroft anyway? Why was he so against John staying over for a night? But more importantly, why did he sound like he was onto John? Could it be that Mycroft knew exactly what he did for a living?

John willed these questions away and made his way downstairs, where the smell of freshly brewed tea seemed to be coming from. And did he smell . . . muffins?

John sprinted into the seating area to find Sherlock typing away on a black laptop. He was dressed in a deep burgundy robe and, underneath the robe, he wore pale blue flannel pajamas. The smell of fresh soap lingered around him.

In front of him, on the table, were two cups of tea.

“The tea to the left is yours, John,” said Sherlock without looking up from his laptop. His hair was slightly damp, which gave it an ink-like texture.

“Oh. Thank you. Again.” John said, taking a seat next to him.

Sherlock clicked away at the keys on his laptop for a moment more before raising his eyes to meet John’s.

“Do you live alone, John?”

“Well, yes. How did you know?”

“You say ‘thank you’ a lot, but not in the normal _I’m-just-being-polite_ way, but in a much more startled way, which means it has been a while since anyone has gone out of their way to do something thoughtful for you. Hence, you live alone. I _would_ say you don’t live alone and suggest a doomed marriage but you don’t wear a ring, which, by the way, could also mean you are having an affair, but by the looks of yesterday, you evidently haven’t had any kind of sexual contact in a long while, which cancels out the affair, and thereby concludes that you live alone.”

John gawked at Sherlock, half stunned and half fascinated. He had never seen anything like it. He had the deduction skills of a genius, something he hadn’t seen, well, ever.

“Wow, that—that was amazing.”

“Amazing  . . . ?” Sherlock repeated, his face softening a bit. John thought he saw him smile, just a bit.

“Yes. Yes it was. Where did you learn to do that?”

Sherlock blinked and resumed typing away on his laptop.

After staring at him for what seemed like forever, John realized that Sherlock was not going to answer his question. He reached for his tea and took a sip of the sweet, warm liquid. The tea gave John a feeling of warmth and comfort, which was something he needed on this mission.

“When was the last time you engaged in sexual intercourse?”

John nearly spit out his tea. “I’m sorry, what?!”

Sherlock sighed. “I really do hate repeating myself.” He lifted his gaze from his laptop and looked straight at the shorter man. “When was the last time you had sex, John?”

“W-why does it even matter?” John said, stuttering through his words. He didn’t like where this conversation was going. His hands were starting to get sweaty.

“Hmm. You are very uptight. Like a soldier.”

John said nothing to this.

Sherlock shut his laptop and placed it on the table in front of him. He walked over to where John was seated and got on his knees.

“Sherlock . . .” John began. Sherlock proceeded to unzip the fly on John’s jeans. “What the heck are you doing?!”

Sherlock looked up at John’s face. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m helping you become a little less tense.” He pursed his lips. “And we never got to finish what we started.”

Now there were many options John had to consider. For one, he was not gay. He did not want to engage in sexual activity with another man, which brought about problem number two: he was on a mission that _required_ him to pretend to be a gay man, which meant that it all boiled down to the sex. This was an important mission for John and he was not about to screw it all up.

Doubts put aside, John took a deep breath.

“Maybe,” he started, “maybe we should take it to the room?”

Sherlock paused, he eyes clouded with thoughts. John could not tell what was going on in that mind of his, but was reassured when Sherlock grinned and replied with a “yes.”

They both stood up, John’s jean’s still unzipped, and scurried up the stairs and into Sherlock’s bedroom.

The room was pretty plain. There was a black dresser, a nightstand, and an unmade bed in the middle of the room. On the nightstand, near the bed, was a framed picture of an old couple, holding each other, smiling. Standing in front of the couple were two kids, a young boy with jet-black curly hair, his mouth curled up into a smile and another boy, a bit older with short brunette hair and a frown.

John’s bright gray eyes widened with realization. Could it be . . . Sherlock’s family?

Before he could ask any questions, Sherlock walked over and pushed down the frame so that the picture was no longer visible.

Sherlock’s face was pained, but it was soon replaced with a tight smile.

“Why are you still clothed?” he asked.

John pretended not to notice his expression and began to remove his clothes. One by one each article of clothing fell onto the ground until he was completely naked. Sherlock closed the distance between himself and John until he could feel every breath taken by the shorter man. He lifted his hand and took hold of John’s chin, forcing him to make direct eye contact.

“How do you want to me to make love to you, John?” Sherlock said, his breath tickling John’s skin.

John felt his cheeks flush pink. “Uh, however you want, I guess.” He said.

Sherlock leaned in towards John’s ear. “I’m in the mood for a rough _fuck_. How about a little game, hmm?”

“A game . . .? What kind of game?”

“A game where I’ll have you beg for mercy. Twice.” Sherlock grinned menacingly. There was a nasty glint of lust in his eyes, something that, upon realization, made John harden almost immediately.

“And if I don’t?” he gulped.

Sherlock began to remove his clothing. “If you don’t, then you are free to do whatever you’d like. But if you do, you must stay the night again.” He said once he was down to his undergarment.

“But there’s a catch, yes?”

“Ah, yes. You’re good at this.” Sherlock tossed his undergarment aside. He was now fully naked. John tried to keep his eyes on Sherlock’s face as he spoke, but his cock was . . . big.

“I will be in control the whole time. You will do only as I say.”

“I don’t think so.”

Sherlock chuckled.

“What—” He interrupted him, pressing his lips roughly to John’s, almost causing him to stumble backward. Sherlock seized John’s bottom lip, sucking and nibbling until he gained entryway into his oral cavity. He used his tongue to explore the wet cavern and used his long and nimble fingers to explore the body in front of him.

Sherlock latched himself onto John’s neck, tasting the sensitive flesh. John moaned quietly and tried to hold onto Sherlock, but was thrown onto the bed instead.

“Rule number one,” Sherlock said, as he kneeled in front of John. “You cannot touch me. I can only touch you, understood?”

“Uh, I can’t promise that.”

Sherlock wrapped his fingers around the base of John’s swollen cock. “What was that?”

“Yes, I said yes.” John whimpered.

The raven-haired man began to pump John’s cock from the base to its tip in a swift upward motion. “What did you say?” he asked again.

“Oh god, _yes!_ ” John cried out in pleasure.

Sherlock placed John’s cock in his mouth and began to suck, hollowing out his cheeks and bobbing his head rhythmically. John had to fight his urge to grab onto those jet-black curls.

After what seemed like only seconds, Sherlock released John’s erect cock from his mouth and turned to retrieve some lube and a condom from one of the drawers of his dresser.

John sat up and raised his eyebrow. “What are you doing?” he asked.

Sherlock continued to tear open the condom and gently placed it over his cock. “Getting ready for the fun part.” He squeezed out a good size of lube and worked it over his cock.

“Open.” Sherlock ordered John, forcing him to spread his legs apart. He squeezed out more lube from the bottle and coated his fingers. Being gentle, Sherlock placed a finger at John’s opening and slowly pushed his way in.

“Good?”

John shifted uncomfortably. “Fine.” He had read enough on anal sex and watched enough gay porn to prepare for this moment. It was unavoidable and, to be honest, John wasn’t as hesitant as he thought he would be. Something about doing this with Sherlock made him feel like he was safe.

“Okay, next finger.” Sherlock repeated the same action with his second finger, being very cautious. “ Jesus Christ, you’re tight.” He performed a scissoring motion with his two fingers.

“It’s been a while.”

“No kidding.” Sherlock rocked his fingers back and forth, caressing John’s opening.

John bit his lip. It actually felt quite nice. Not nice enough to make him want to do this again, just nice in general. He had read about how pleasurable anal sex was and wanted to get on with it. Not that he was gay or anything, because he wasn’t.

“Get on with it . . .” John grunted. He was feeling needy.

“Alright. I’ll go slow. Wouldn’t want to rip you apart just yet.”

John rolled his eyes.

Sherlock winked.

He grabbed hold of John’s legs and placed them over his shoulders, locking him into position. He took hold of his dick and slowly pressed into John’s opening. Inch by inch, Sherlock pushed himself inside the shorter man until he heard John groan.

“ _God_ . . . I think you found it.” John put his hand on Sherlock’s chest as if to stop him. He gave himself a few seconds before looking into the taller man’s eyes and muttering out “Ready.”

Sherlock went slowly at first, smirking at John’s desperate moans. He watched his face contort with a mixture of pain and pleasure. It was almost as if it was his first time.

“Faster . . .” John begged. He felt as if he was being tortured, but it felt so good.

Sherlock thrusted into the smaller man a bit faster and a lot rougher than he intended to. The feeling of John tight around his dick was driving him insane. He tried to gain control of himself, but he couldn’t.

“Fuck, why are you so tight?” he groaned, throwing back his head. He continued to thrust into John with amazing speed. Beneath him, John whimpered.

“Sherlock . . . I—” His climax was powerful, making his whole body quiver with pure ecstasy. Seconds later, Sherlock came crashing down, his orgasm taking him with full force. He collapsed on the bed, out of breath.

John turned to him. “I never begged for mercy.” He too was out of breath.

Sherlock smiled at the ceiling. “ I guess you win.” He turned to John. “So does the champion know what he’d like to do next?”

John rolled over on top of Sherlock and straddled him. “I think I have an idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so so so so so so much for the comments, kudos, subscribes, bookmarks etc.,!
> 
> I am forever grateful and it makes me so happy! I love reading your comments (and yes I answer every single one of them).
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I look forward to seeing you all in chapter 9.
> 
> *throws confetti at you guys*


	9. Flashbacks Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO FRIGGIN SORRY FOR NOT WRITING OKAY. So many things happened at once and I got super busy but I'm back. So if you guys want to kill me, you are totally free to.
> 
> Anyway, this is part one of two. I had to get the first half out because this chapter was taking forever and I kept postponing it. This chapter (or part one of this chapter) is super super duper short (it's saddening) but next one won't be, that I can promise. 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy part one and don't want to really kill me (because then you'll have no stories!)

The two men went at it three more times before John decided to head home. John had to admit that this was the most fun he had ever had since, well, in a long time.

He felt comfortable around Sherlock, and that was saying something.

That afternoon, Sherlock had done something surprising and shared a little bit about his life. He told John about his dog, Redbeard, who was the love of his life when he was just a little boy. He explained to John how Redbeard had grown old and had to be put down.

The pain in Sherlock’s eyes was evident.

John, in turn, told Sherlock about his sister Harry and how she had ruined many events in his life by showing up completely intoxicated. John and his family had sent Harry to rehab for eight months and she was now better than ever, or at least she claimed to be.

She was now living with her new girlfriend, Bridget, somewhere near Cambridge. He had yet to call Harry, being that in a few weeks, it would be one year since she was sober.

Sherlock listened to all this, both men still in bed and still completely naked. His deep blue eyes glittered with patience and understanding, and he wore a gentle smile upon his lips.

When John had stopped talking and began to stare up at the ceiling, lost in thought, Sherlock began to trace the corner of his face with nimble fingers, stopping at the shorter man’s lips. Sherlock leaned over and kissed John.

John felt something warm pool up in his heart.

Yes, they had done this many times while engaged in sex, but somehow this one was different. It was not rough but soft and gentle.

 

John left Sherlock’s flat at about half past four in the afternoon. Sherlock had been kind enough to walk him downstairs to the door.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you soon.” John said, shielding the sun from his eyes. The weather outside had changed. The sun was out and it was warm outside.

“I never agreed to your company.” Sherlock replied, smirking.

“Ah, well, you’ll just have to get used to it.”

Sherlock gazed at John for what seemed like forever before shutting his front door. John stood there for a minute, half expecting Sherlock to open his door and invite him in again. They could pick up where they left off and then have some tea, maybe talk about family, life, everything.

How absurd these thoughts were!

John willed these feelings away and hailed a cab home.

Once inside his flat, he went straight to his room to remove his clothes. One by one, he folded each article of clothing neatly and went to put them away in his draw. Upon opening the draw, his eyes caught sight of a folded photo wedged between a pair of pants. John grabbed the photo and unfolded it.

The photo was of a woman, late thirties, with short blonde hair, bright hazel eyes and a lopsided smirk

He had forgotten about this picture; the picture of his late fiancé, _Mary Morstan_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all soooooo much for all the kudos, and subscriptions and comments and well everything!! Thank you for sticking with this story thus far. 
> 
> I am super grateful for all of this and I love you guys so much!! Reading all your comments make me super happy and you are all so goddamn cute!
> 
> Anyways thanks again and I shall see you in the next chapter really soon!


	10. Sweet, Sweet Surprise (Preview)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well how much do you guys hate me???
> 
> I am super sorry. Life got in the way of things but I am back and ready to write you some chapters. 
> 
> This is a snippet of the chapter to come. I didn't want to wait any longer so I decided to publish a preview while I finish writing the rest of the chapter just so you guys know all hope isn't lost.
> 
> Enjoyyyyyy~

Mycroft stood about ten inches from the door to Sherlock’s flat, patiently waiting until the big hand on his watch hit twelve. Still as a statue, he observed his surroundings; the light wind kicked up a few brown and orange leaves, allowing them to dance on the pavement before settling down. The harmonious sound of birds chirping carried on into air, along with the distinct smell of nature. _Such a beautiful autumn day_ , Mycroft thought to himself, _it’s a bloody shame that I’ll have to ruin it._

On that note, Mycroft used the base of his umbrella to knock obnoxiously at the door. Knowing Sherlock, after the last visit to his flat, he was sure the little brute had changed all the locks. Not that Mycroft couldn’t acquire a key at the snap of a finger (after all, that was what he paid his assistant, April, for), he just thought it was better to be polite, especially since he had a surprise in store for Sherlock, a surprise he knew he wouldn’t like but was sure it was for the better.

In fact the “surprise” stood right next to him, all dapper in a sleek black suit and a cigarette in tow. The sweet cigarette smoke filled the space between them.

His assistant April had once again worked her magic and brought out a very special someone from Sherlock’s past, someone powerful enough to kick that John boy to the curb.

The door swung open and there Sherlock stood with an aggravated look on his pale face.

“For the love of god, Mycroft, can’t you just—“ he immediately stopped and his eyes widened. It was as if he had suddenly lost the ability to speak.

A few uncomfortable seconds passed by before Sherlock uttered a word.

“…Moriarty?”

His sweet, sweet surprise.

 

**TO BE CONTINUED...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the teaser and are very confused and angry and dying to know what happens next. 
> 
> the full chapter is on the way.
> 
> Thank you so so so so so sosoososososo much for sticking with me this far. Your kudos and comments and bookmarks (etc) mean so much to me and make me so so so happy.
> 
> I love you all so much, y'all are my little babies ^u^
> 
> Question of this chapter:  
> What do you think is going to happen in this chapter??? I would love to see what you guys are thinking!
> 
> See you soon <3


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